


Invisible Threads

by cissues



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Invisibility, Love Confessions, M/M, The intimacy of spying on your enemy, Watford Eighth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissues/pseuds/cissues
Summary: Simon has a brilliant plan: spell himself invisible and catch Baz in his plotting red-handed! It's a perfect plan! Except for the fact that Baz isn't plotting. In fact, he's not doing much of anything besides crying and listening to music alone. Now Simon has to figure out what to do with a crumbling rivalry and these newfound feelings for his arch-nemesis.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 47
Kudos: 247





	Invisible Threads

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! My first Carry On fic! And my first finished fic in months! Oof!
> 
> A few things: I am American, but since this is a Carry On fic, I tried my darndest to make it appropriately British but I may have missed the mark a bit. Whoops! You can point it out if you wanna but just know I am painfully aware. I had like 3 tabs of British slang open while writing this.
> 
> Also, the quote "Invisible threads are the strongest ties" by Neitzsche was from a book that was published about 5 years after the Lincoln assassination. I spent about an hour trying to figure it out for that one throwaway line. I decided that I didn't care cuz I liked the "tyrannis/Tyrannus" joke so just pretend that the Neitzsche quote was published like half a decade before the Lincoln assassination for the sake of this fic about boys kissing.
> 
> They're in their eighth year and Simon and Penny got teleported by the Humdrum but like also idk it's like weirdly divergent and Baz didn't get kidnapped because it didn't suit my needs so I don't really need to explain myself!
> 
> The songs referenced that Baz was listening to were Pink Moon by Nick Drake, I Melt With You by Modern English, and Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush in that order.  
> 
> 
> Anyway I hope you like it!!! <3 I felt like it's a little rushed but I just finished reading Wayward Son for the first time and my heart hurts and I just want them to be okay.

**SIMON**

“I still think this is a terrible idea. I would just like to reiterate that.”

I’m certain that the only reason Penny has stayed this long is because the sheer amount of research required was far too enticing for her to pass up. I know it’s probably a bad idea, I know it’s likely to blow up in my face, but I feel close to my wit’s end and I’ve run out of options.

I know something is going on. Baz has been unusually quiet lately. He keeps… _watching_ me. Not glaring, like he usually does, but just… _watching_. It’s eerie. It’s _creepy_. It’s bloody _distracting_. And I have to figure out what he’s plotting before he finds a way around the Anathema and kills me in my sleep.

Penny had tried to reassure me that it was probably nothing, that I should be happy that he’s not actively trying to make my life a living hell, but he still _is_. Without even doing anything, he’s been driving me mad. (Penny tried to have a _conversation_ about that, too. It included a lot of pointed looks and eye rolls and she only gave up when I got too frustrated and started leaking magic. It’s not _my_ fault that I can’t stop thinking about him! What he might be plotting, I mean.)

“Alright, got it, Pen. Thanks for the input.”

She huffs a little at my sarcasm and turns a page in the book of spells she’s reading. We haven’t found anything in the newer volumes, the ones with song lyrics and modern sayings. She’s currently on a book of magickal philosophers and she’s starting to look a little bored, which is concerning. If I lose Penny, then I might as well give up on this plan. There’s no way I’ll be able to cast the spell correctly on my own, much less _find_ what I’m looking for.

I’m about to suggest a break, maybe try to get to dinner early or let her help me with elocution homework, when she gasps. My head snaps up from the book I’d stopped reading ages ago and she’s excitedly pointing at an isolated quote on the page in front of her.

“This is it, Simon! I’m sure of it! It fits perfectly!”

I sit up straighter in my chair, ignoring the way my back clicks and cracks with the motion, and go to lean closer so I can read.

It’s a Nietzsche quote. I was never all that interested in philosophy, even the Normal sort, so I don’t know much about him. I know people think he’s dead brilliant, but I’ve never been able to understand anything he’s written.

Below the quote is an in depth description of the spell-- what it’s used for, famous castings of it throughout history (there’s only one, and my eyes skip over the words; _Abraham Lincoln_ and _Sic semper tyrannis_ pop out at me and I let myself smirk. _Tyrannis_ , _Tyrannus_. Maybe this spell _is_ perfect.)

“The spell is used to get close to the enemy-- or, well, anyone with a strong tie to you, I suppose-- without them seeing or noticing you at all! This is exactly what we’ve been looking for, Simon!”

I’m grinning, my fingers growing a bit tingly with excitement. I was starting to be sure that we’d never find it, that this plan would have to go into the growing pile of failed attempts at spying on Baz. But here it was, perfect and perfectly made. It feels like fate, a bit, and I watch as Penny gets her face too close to the page, her lips moving as she absorbs everything about the spell.

After about half an hour of Penny quietly mumbling the words, putting emphasis on different syllables, and announcing-- with _great_ satisfaction-- that she’s got it, we decide to head to dinner.

Part of me wanted to start right away. We finally had it, and it almost felt like the magic of it would fade the longer we waited. Penny assured me that her ability to cast spells would not go away after a round of roast beef and soft buns.

Mealtimes have been a bit of a downer ever since Agatha and I split. She’s refused to sit with us, but she doesn’t seem to have any other friends here. She’s usually alone in some corner, picking at her food, if she’s even there at all. I’d told her that it was okay, that we could still be friends, that I didn’t care about her and Baz (even if that wasn’t strictly true. I care quite a bit), but she’d said she needed space. To think, she said. I wasn’t even sure what there was to think about, but I let her go and I try not to bother her. It’s easier than I thought.

Baz is the part that really unsettles me. After seven years of glares across the hall, of sneers and taunts and having a go at Agatha, the quiet is dead sinister. He doesn’t even _look_ at me. I would know, because I look at _him_ the entire time.

It’s the same today, watching him as I stuff a crusty sort of bread slathered with butter into my mouth. He’s sitting with Dev and Niall, as always, and he has his eyes trained on his plate that he doesn’t eat from. Every so often he’ll sort of smile at something one of the others says, but it’s never more than that, and he doesn’t look up. He’s like that in our room, too. He’ll roll his eyes when I try to rile him up, sometimes he’ll return it with a halfhearted insult, but it’s obvious his heart’s not in it. Like going through the motions. I hate it. I need to know what he’s up to.

As soon as we’re done eating, I hurry Penny out of the dining hall, pleased when I notice Baz’s head snap up at the way she loudly squawks at me. He only watches us for a brief moment, but it feels a bit like a victory. Like I’ve finally got his attention. Too bad I’m going to lose it for the foreseeable future.

We’d decided on getting as close to the Wavering Wood as we dared, knowing that we would be mostly unseen there. I’m buzzing with energy, excitement, and Penny looks like she’s having second thoughts.

“Simon,” she starts and her voice is uncertain as she toys with the ring on her finger, “are you absolutely _certain_ about this? We don’t fully know if the spell will work like we think… what if you get stuck like that? What if there’s unknown side effects? Is all of this _really_ worth it?”

I sigh, tugging at my hair in frustration. “ _Yes_ , Pen. I’m telling you, Baz has been dodgy for _weeks_. If I don’t figure out what he’s doing then he might actually get the chance to kill me this time. This isn’t like it’s been before. Something’s different about him.”

Penny deflates slightly, twisting her mouth up like she’s still debating it but I can tell when she’s decided on something. After a moment she takes in a deep breath and looks up at me, determined.

“If you’re still invisible by the end of breakfast tomorrow, come find me and I’ll see to fixing it. Whether or not you’ve learned anything about Baz’s plotting, you _have_ to promise me that.”

It’s a reasonable enough request, so I nod, holding out my hand for her to shake. I’m not certain I’ll find out anything tonight, but convincing her to do it again shouldn’t be too hard. She takes my hand and it seems to calm her a bit.

“Okay, stand still.”

I square my shoulders and watch as she lifts her hand, pointing her ringed finger at me. She has this serious look on her face and I know I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with this spell.

“ **Invisible threads are the strongest ties.** ”

I feel Penny’s magic wash over me, tingling in my toes and fingertips. She’s looking at me up until she’s not and I know the spell has worked. Her face drops and she glances around even though I haven’t moved an inch.

“Simon? Simon, can you still speak?”

“I dunno, you tell me,” I say and I sound giddy. Penny immediately relaxes before her face breaks out in a delighted grin.

“It worked,” she breathes, putting her hand out and walking toward me, trying to figure out if she can still feel where I am. Her fingers collide with my stomach and she jumps a bit, eyes going wide. 

“I can’t feel your magic at all,” she says, “it’s like you’re not even there until I touch you. This is amazing. I wish I could turn you in for a grade, Si, I do swear.”

I grin and bump her arm with my elbow. She grins at the space just left of my head.

“Alright, let’s get on with it, yeah?” I say and I can feel the thrill of it crack through the air between us.

\---

Penny, obviously, doesn’t come with me as I make my way back to Mummers. She insisted that I update her completely in the morning and parted reluctantly, still a little gobsmacked by the success of the spell. I’m sure there were some specifics that she hadn’t told me about, something that made the spell especially difficult, and I’m proud of her for getting it. I’m bloody relieved, as well, that I will finally know what Baz is doing. When he’s alone, when his guard is down, what he plots when I’m not there.

The first obstacle, I realise, is the door. I hadn’t thought about how I would actually get _in_ to the room without completely giving myself away. I should have talked to Penny about it, seen if there was a way to phase through walls or blip into rooms. After a few minutes of brainstorming I decide to wait. Surely Baz is coming back sometime soon. He doesn’t stay in our room for long, but he’ll be doing homework around this time and he likes being able to spread his books over his bedspread as opposed to a desk.

It takes Baz nearly twenty minutes before he’s stomping up the staircase. Well, not _stomping_ \-- Baz never _stomps_ \-- but his footsteps are heavier than usual and he looks… mad. Angry, that is. Or maybe more upset. He certainly has more emotion on his face than I’ve seen in days, maybe weeks, and it surprises me more than I expected. I press myself as close to the wall as I can as he reaches the door. I expect him to just throw it open, maybe throw on one of his signature sneers for good measure just in case I was in there, but he waits. He grips the handle, leaning forward a little and waits. Like he’s listening, maybe. His eyes fall closed after a moment and he sighs through his nose in a quick huff. He opens the door like it’s heavy, with weight into it, and I barely have time to slip through before he’s closing it behind him and falling back against it. There’s a cursory look around the room, one last time, before he’s sliding down to the floor and resting his head in his hands. He’s so still, so quiet, and I wait for him to get back up, to do _something_ , when he lets out a quiet whimper.

I realise with a jolt that he’s _crying_. His shoulders are sort of shaking and I can hear the way he draws breath like it’s painful. I don’t know what I thought I was going to see, but it’s certainly not this. I was expecting more… evil. More steepled fingers and villain laughter. Not… _this_. Not a boy having a cry on the floor of his empty room.

Of course I’ve had my fair shares of cries. They never feel like _this_ , though. I’ll hold it back for as long as I can until the tears leak out of me and I shake, usually in the quiet of the room at night, or in the bathroom, or sometimes with Penny’s gentle hand on my shoulder. Baz looks like he’s barely keeping himself together. He looks like he’s never cried with a comforting hand on his arm before. He looks like he’s breaking apart.

I keep my distance, not touching anything in fear of accidentally making a noise, and watch. It’s uncomfortable, seeing him like this. I thought maybe it would be a bit funny at first, or at least I would feel vindictive, but I just feel _bad_. No one should be made to feel like this, not even Baz. I want to know what’s changed, what’s turned him from a sneering arsehole into this sniveling kid on our floor. Suddenly, I realise that I’m not even sure if he’s not like this whenever I’m gone and somehow that just makes me feel worse.

I’m interrupted from my thoughts when his fingers release from where they had been clenched in his own hair and he gently thumps himself on his own head, releasing a truly heart wrenching sob. I’m briefly concerned that the Anathema might apply in this situation. Surely, it wouldn’t let you hurt _yourself_? But it seems to get him to collect himself and he takes a deep breath before letting out a long, weighty sigh, head lifting from between his knees and bumping back against the door. His face is wrecked. Tear lines running down his cheeks and his nose is ruddy and wet with snot. His grey eyes are trained on the ceiling and he looks… scared, almost. Maybe overwhelmed. He takes in a shuddering breath and frowns a bit.

“ _Pathetic_ ,” he murmurs under his breath, so quiet I barely hear it, before he picks himself up off the floor and stalks into the bathroom, depositing his school blazer on his desk. He doesn’t close the door, just leans over the sink and stares at himself in the mirror a moment. He makes a funny face at himself, scrunching his eyebrows and mouth up, and it makes me smile in spite of myself. I’m strangely relieved that the crying has passed and he seems to be feeling better. He sneers at himself, followed closely by a sharp roll of his eyes, before he splashes some cold water onto his face and dries it on my towel. _Prick_ , I think, and almost miss how he inhales deeply from it before standing up straight. He looks frustrated again. Upset. And murmurs something else to himself, but I can’t hear what he says this time.

Watching Baz do homework for two straight hours should be more boring than it is. If I wasn’t already so practiced at looking at him, I might have missed the things that make it interesting. The way he scrunches his nose up when he’s having trouble, the way his eyebrows pinch when he’s focusing, how he twirls a pencil between his fingers back and forth, expertly. Oh, and there’s the fact that Baz apparently has a bloody _mobile_.

The only person I’d heard of having one within the school wards is Penny, and that’s only because her mum is brilliant and was able to spell it for her. I have no idea how he got it in, but I can imagine that the Old Families would want to better communicate with their mole, and there’s a whole load of powerful magic on that side. Crowley, knowing how smart Baz is I wouldn’t be surprised if he spelled it himself.

Greedily, I shuffle to be able to look over his shoulder, certain I was about to catch him writing out reports to his dad, or some other mage on his side, but when I see the screen, he’s only scrolling through a music app. He takes an unseemly amount of time to choose, just going through lists of songs, clicking around, until finally he sets the mobile down and gets out his wand. I take a few steps back, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire of his spell.

“ **Forwarn’d, forearm’d**.”

It’s an alarm spell that Penny uses sometimes when she’s snuck up here and she thinks Baz might walk in on us. It’s not sinister, it won’t do any harm. It will just give you gooseflesh on your arms when someone is approaching. I watch as Baz listens, waits, and then hits the play button on his music app.

A gentle melody eekes out of the mobile speakers and Baz smiles a little to himself before going back to his homework. It’s an acoustic guitar and a male voice singing about a pink moon, a song I’ve never heard before, and Baz is humming to it. He taps his pencil against his knee where his legs are crossed and he leans over his own lap to jot something down on his paper, head bobbing side to side.

I knew that Baz plays violin, but I’ve never _once_ seen him listen to music. It’s a little, human sort of thing that you don’t think about until you see it. What people look like when they listen to a song they really like. What people listen to and how. Like how Baz keeps the sound quiet for a bit before a song comes on that he seems to enjoy more than the others and he’ll reach out, clicking up the volume, and have this pleased grin on his face.

Then, fucking _then_ , Baz starts to sing.

I would have expected Baz to be brilliant at singing, because he’s brilliant at everything, but when he gets to the chorus of the song and has to sit back from his homework to close his eyes, swinging his head back and forth, his voice comes out flat and tinny and not at _all_ pleasant and so, so charming.

“ _I’ll stop the world and melt with you_ ,” Baz sings, a little quiet and a little timid, but with no lack of enthusiasm. I watch, feeling something in my chest thump uncomfortably. Over and over Baz has proven me wrong. He’s been so tired lately, so distracted, that I was sure that he would be using every possible moment to plot and plan my demise, or the demise of The Mage, or drink the blood of innocents, or _something_. I was expecting a monster, but what I got was a boy.

No, I correct myself, what I got was _Baz_. Just… _Baz_. This is what’s left when there’s no mask, nothing to hide. It’s just Baz Pitch, a year eight boy who apparently _really_ likes the band Modern English despite them being a shoddy one hit wonder. Baz Pitch who cries with his whole body, who probably learned how to twirl a pencil like that so that he would look cool in class. Baz Pitch who hasn’t done a bloody thing to me in weeks and I just spent the last four hours trying to catch him in a plot he so clearly doesn’t have.

Part of me is still skeptical. Certainly he must have sensed me somehow and is trying to throw me off the trail, trying to make me feel bad for him and let down my guard before striking me down once and for all. Certainly _this_ can’t be how Baz spends his time in the room alone. Maybe this is an off day for him, maybe he does his plotting elsewhere so as to not be caught, but he put the alarm spell on and I _know_ he would much rather be caught plotting than singing. Singing _badly_. Singing _very, very_ badly; off-key and squawkish and everything.

I’ll have to talk to Penny about this tomorrow. We could try it again, another time when he’s acting more evil than usual, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it’ll just be more of the same.

More of the same-- well, now he’s done with homework and I’m suddenly invested in what Baz will do now. I’m usually back in the room by now and we’re starting our nightly routine of insults and inconveniencing each other. As he gathers up his books and papers from his bedspread he glances at his arm, frowning at the distinct lack of gooseflesh there. He glances up at the door, eyebrows pinched. He doesn’t look angry, or pleased at my absence. He looks… _worried_. Just a little.

He stows his homework away in his school bag where it sits on his desk, his music still playing from his bed. I’m still in position right next to his pillows where I had been reading everything he wrote in his notes and trying to catch him slipping whenever he would pick up his mobile, but all he was doing was homework and listening to music. The whole time. Not even a rude doodle or a curse word. I’m supposed to be doing the same homework right now, in fact.

There’s a creak in the floorboards and I glance up from where I was reading a notification on his mobile screen for some astrology app (it’s a horoscope; completely unevil and completely charming). Baz is still standing at his desk and his hands grip the back of the uncomfortable wooden chairs they give us to study on. For a second I think that he’s finally figured it out, that he’s pausing for dramatic effect, about to turn around and spell me into pieces. His shoulders are tense and he’s got his hip cocked in a way that outlines the curve of his back and his toned football thighs. I’ve noticed it before, the way he looks from behind. I look at him a lot. From a lot of different angles. 

My mouth goes a little dry at the realization that I’ve apparently been watching Baz so much that I’ve noticed how nice his backside is. That I’ve looked _at his backside_ enough to know it well and intimately. It doesn’t even come as a surprise, necessarily, it just sort of hits me that I’ve always done this, maybe even acknowledged that he’s fit out loud. But Baz _is_ fit. He’s _extremely_ fit. I’ve always thought that. And now he’s about to kill me, I’m sure of it. He’s poised to spin around and take me out. Maybe I deserve it for creeping on him for… maybe for _years_.

“ _And if only I could_ ,” the woman singing from Baz’s mobile shrieks and he spins around, eyes shut and arms spread out. He joins in when she sings, “ _I’d make a deal with God_ ,” and his voice is just as dodgy as before, maybe even more since it’s louder and he’s doing something with his shoulders that shakes the air out of his lungs and makes him skip over a few of the words.

He’s dancing, I realise.

He’s dancing-- …well, singing seems to be the only thing that Baz Pitch does not do brilliantly.

Even with his eyes mostly closed, he shimmies his shoulders and tilts his hips around in this effortlessly fluid sort of way that emphasises all of his sharp bits, all of the curves and points of his body. He swings his head back and forth, shaking his black hair loose and letting it fall over his forehead in a way that he never lets happen with anyone around. It’s a little curled and soft-looking and he has this little smile playing on his lips, a real smile. Not a smirk or a sneer, but a pleased, happy-looking smile.

So Baz Pitch is not only fit, but he’s… _Merlin_ , he’s a bit beautiful.

I forget myself, focused on his jerky movements and the way his voice cracks when he tries to hit a high note, and I lean too heavily against the wall. The groan of wood cuts through the still-quiet song and Baz freezes. He looks so caught, so prematurely embarrassed, that I can’t help but grin. He checks his arm, feeling over the skin. I can see from here that it’s smooth as always, and he frowns again at the door. The clock on his bedside table tells me that it’s late. Much later than I usually am, even when I’ve been pulled away for one reason or another. I like sleeping, and I like to wake up early for breakfast, so I’m typically brushing my teeth by now and arguing with Baz about the window.

He falls onto his bedspread, pushing his hair out of his eyes in this way that flexes his forearms. It’s dead gorgeous. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from bloody _swooning_.

“Merlin, Snow,” Baz hisses and my heart stops for a moment, “what on Earth have you gotten yourself into?”

He’s talking to himself-- talking to _me_ , but into the silence of our room where he knows I won’t answer. He doesn’t sound annoyed or anything. He sounds _worried_ , like his expression earlier. He’s worried. He’s worrying about _me._

“ _Crowley,_ if you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed without me…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he’s up and shoving his arms through his blazer, stuffing his wand into his trouser pocket. I realise he’s about to leave, to go _find me_. My heart is pounding against my chest. I don’t know what this means, if he’s worrying about me or if he’s just worried that I’m _up_ to something. Just like I was with him. Does he spend just as much time thinking about me as I think about him? I don’t think so, because I realise that if I had all of the time that he’s had in our room alone I would have been searching his things, I would have been thinking about him, where he is, what he’s doing, and I wouldn’t have been able to do homework, or listen to music, or bloody _dance._ I’ve always functioned better when he’s within arm’s reach, anyway.

Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah. Aleister _fucking_ Crowley. Jesus fucking _Christ_.

I think I might fancy Baz.

I almost miss him darting out the door and have to duck under his arm at the last minute before he’s practically flying down the staircase. I chase after him, scrambling to think of what to do now.

Part of me is curious about where he might think to look for me, if he’ll try asking anyone and give away that he might be a little concerned for the safety of his nemesis-apparent. Will he try to interrogate Penny? Agatha?

I follow him as he swings out of the tower and into Mummer’s proper, rushing down a hallway I’ve never been to before. He stops in front of a door and raps on it urgently, not stopping until it’s swung open with clear agitation.

“I have a quiz in the morning, Basil.”

I realise that I’ve never paid too much attention to Dev. I know he’s some distantly related cousin of Baz’s, but I never thought they looked all that alike. They have the same nose, though, and the same posture. Dev has a palm pressed to his forehead, as if Baz’s very presence is exhausting him.

“Snow’s missing.”

Dev sighs, eyes rolling deep in his head, before he turns around and snatches a deep green corduroy jacket off of a hook beside the door.

“This is the last time I’m letting you drag me after your boyfriend, Basil. I swear you should keep him on a leash.”

  
  


**BAZ**

I shove Dev a bit for that little comment. He should know better than to tease me about Snow out in the open. Besides, I haven’t even been _dragging him along_ this year. I haven’t been out looking for Snow at all this year. Because I’m bloody tired and I’m at my wit’s end and I can’t _do_ this anymore.

Telling Dev about my feelings for Snow had been a disastrous accident. He’d gotten me pissed once on a particularly sensitive sort of night. Snow had spent the week ignoring me after some horrible comment I’d made about Wellbelove (to get _more_ of his attention, not less of it) and I was feeling unmoored. Dev thought I was mooning over Wellbelove and something in me broke when he tried to comfort me about it and I shouted the truth at him. He’d taken it in stride, good man, but it’s still the kind of leverage that I try to keep out of the hands of others.

Also, he makes comments like _that_ and it makes me ache a little, hearing him refer to Snow as my _boyfriend_. I’m terribly weak and I hate to be reminded.

But Snow is missing. I haven’t seen him since he’d hurried Bunce away during dinner. They’d made a whole bustling scene of it that it was hard to ignore him like I have been. Because I have to. Because if I catch Snow watching me one more bloody time then something in me might break.

I know that I’ve been suspiciously quiet these last few weeks. I’m usually more careful about putting up a front, direct attention away from any genuine feelings I might have, but my energy has been sapped. I feel wrung out and every time I go to sneer at Snow or throw an insult or two it just feels… well, it feels the same way it’s always felt. Horrible, draining, shameful. There’s only so long, I’ve found, that one can go on pretending before it begins to take a toll.

Looking at Snow is just as painful, as well, and I can’t seem to find a good balance anymore. His attention used to be good enough, it used to satiate me just enough that I thought I could go on like that forever. That is until he killed me, or something killed me (or until I let myself die by whatever means fate has in store for me). His undivided hatred could almost feel like passion if I deluded myself enough, but when I got back from break this year and my eyes had landed on him across the dining hall and he looked so _tired_ , so worn down… it broke something in me.

Besides all of that, this summer had been particularly horrible. My father has begun to involve me more and more in the plans of the Old Families. Likely my turning eighteen has meant that I’m old enough to be trusted with these sorts of things. I thought it would help, make me feel more useful and included, give me some sort of outlet besides halfheartedly torturing Snow once every year or so, but it really, truly did not.

There were plenty of things to get caught up on, meetings with stuffy old men who watched me like I was some sort of untrained dog. No one talked about my… _condition_ , but my father had mentioned in passing that they could _use_ me. Use what I was to get to The Mage, or Snow. I was not involved in the meetings where they discuss my _usefulness_ and I could only assume the words they use, how they might speak about me. Like I was a _tool_ , a weapon. It gave me a glimpse into how Snow must feel every time he speaks with The Mage. It felt shite.

Dev trails behind me, huffing and puffing and being generally unamused by my single-mindedness. I don’t talk to him about Snow, not even now that he knows my worst secret. It feels like too much of a risk. I trust Dev, but not enough to continue handing him ammunition. Trust is a very scarce for dark creatures. For creatures like me. No matter how good a man, how confident a friend, anyone could turn on me at the first glimpse of fang.

“Do you even know where to look?” He asks halfway through scouring the goat field. I’m feeling more and more frazzled by the moment. I _don’t_ know where to look. I’m not even entirely sure that Snow is in trouble. It dawns on me with a sickening suddenness that he could be with Wellbelove. I am unbearably transparent. Dev sighs from beside me, his head tilted and his lips turned down. He doesn’t touch me-- we don’t have that kind of relationship-- but his expression is more than enough of an attempt at comfort that it’s a close thing.

“Basil, mate, maybe we should try tomorrow. If he doesn’t show up to breakfast then we can ask the Bunce girl. I know--”

“You don’t. You don’t know,” I snarl and if I could I would be blushing at the implication. Dev has absolutely no idea what it’s like not to have Snow within eyesight, what I saw at the end of last year. He has no idea how much I ache and worry and _think_ about Simon bloody Snow. The entire summer, when I wasn’t worrying about being used as the Old Family’s undead attack dog, I was worrying about Snow. After all these years I still don’t know where he goes off to during the summer and the not knowing makes it infinitely worse. Snow has always been tight-lipped about his life outside of Watford but it has always struck me as an unpleasant thought rather than some sort of sworn secrecy.

Dev sighs again and straightens up, glancing around the field as if he might catch sight of Snow, or someone he can pawn me off on. He frowns at the distance, eyes squinting.

“Well, then, perhaps we should just ask Bunce now.”

I look up and, lo and behold, Bunce is wandering from the Weeping Tower towards the Cloisters. She has an armful of books and she’s looking deliciously unawares. It takes all of my willpower not to outright growl-- it would have been incredibly gauche of me to do-- as I stalk towards her.

She sees us before I can give her any sort of fright and I feel that it’s for the best. My instinct to startle her, or act otherwise untoward, would likely not earn me any favor. She looks a bit surprised to see me, glancing between Dev and I too quickly and clutching her books to her chest in an inane attempt at defense.

“Basilton,” she greets me shortly, “Dev.”

  
Dev grunts at her, looking away from our exchange with his hands stuffed in his pockets and adopting a rather bored expression. I try to school myself a bit, seem less like the madman I know I am.

“Bunce, have you seen Snow?” Straight to the point. No use wagging our chins. I must seem utterly obsessed, I’m sure.

Her eyes widen a smidge before she slowly shakes her head no.

“Uhm, no. Not since dinner. We did some schoolwork at the library afterwards but he left pretty quickly. Said he needed to… he went on a walk, I think.”

I curse under my breath, going to press a palm to my forehead, looking away from the two of them. My heart is thundering in my chest.

“He could be anywhere,” I murmur and Bunce seems surprised at this, too.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” she says, hedging, “he’ll, ah… he’ll probably be back later tonight or tomorrow morning. He told me he would, at least.”

I level her with a look that could only be had from one Simon Snow obsessed individual to another. “As if Snow ever has a choice in these matters. The world at large often has other plans for him.”

Bunce’s eyes narrow as she shifts her books to one arm. I notice her ringed hand flex against the spine of a rather large tome.

“Do you have any such plans, Basilton?” She asks. Laughter barks out of me before I can stop it. I roll my eyes at her.

“Very cute, Bunce. If I ever had any real plans for him then Snow would have been long dead by now. I’m more concerned about the plans of _others_ now that we know he can be magicked away at the whim and will of the Humdrum.”

Bunce, again, seems surprised at this. She frowns at me, watching me a little curiously. It was a stupidly obvious of me to say all of that, but I don’t have the energy to keep pretending that I’m not constantly thinking of Snow. That I am not always worrying about him. That I’m not obsessed.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Bunce straightens and relaxes again. She has a smirk playing on her lips that makes me a bit mental. Bunce and Snow, always acting like they have the upper hand, like they always know something no one else knows. It’s infuriating.

“If I see him,” she says, slowly and deliberately, “which I have a _good_ feeling I will before the end of the night, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

It’s the best I can get for now. Bunce is acting strange and it’s late and as long as she knows that Snow is missing, I’m certain he’ll be found come Hell or high water. I feel suddenly exhausted and my shoulders sag a bit when I relax.

“Thank you,” I say before I can think better of it. Bunce stares at me as if I’ve sprouted a new head, or admitted to my vampirism. I roll my eyes and add, “for the absolute bare minimum, Bunce. Don’t let it go to your head.”

She scrunches her nose at me and turns to leave, nodding at Dev politely as she leaves.

“You’re a strange lot,” Dev says, looking utterly lost as he follows me back to Mummers, “your little Chosen One fan club.”

I sneer at him but don’t have the energy to argue.

\---

**PENELOPE**

I hope that Simon caught on. I don’t even know for sure if he was still following Baz. He might have fallen asleep, or run off to The Mage if he’d found information. I had no way of knowing.

Baz and Dev walk back towards Mummers House and it’s a curious thing. Baz looks… dejected, put out almost. He also looks run ragged. It’s a look that I’ve become familiar with over the last few weeks. Baz with his head hung low, not eating, not participating in class nearly as much. Simon may have been right about one thing. A quiet Baz is a suspicious Baz. But after our conversation, I’m not so certain about what he could be hiding. Or, well, I _am_. I’m just also certain that he has no intention of hurting Simon. In fact, quite the opposite if my theory is correct. And my theories are nearly always correct.

Once I’m alone, I hurriedly glance around to see if I can sense Simon anywhere. The spell masks any hint of magic or presence. No body heat, no smell-- nothing. The only thing that can indicate that Simon is here at all is if he lets himself be known.

“Simon,” I hiss into the cold night air. It’s so late. I should have been back in my room ages ago, “Simon! Are you there?”

I get my answer in a cheeky tug of my ponytail.

Simon’s laughter cuts through my embarrassing shout of surprise and I round on the source, but see only night air.

“It’s still going?” I ask, peering around the empty space. It _seems_ so empty. I used to think that invisibility spells were embarrassingly useless against a decent mage. Invisible people still give off the scent of magic, of human, and if you train yourself enough you can see the shimmer of glamour without even adjusting your eyes. I can’t see a thing now. I allow myself a bit of pride.

“Yeah, Pen, it’s still going,” Simon sounds exasperated, which is not a tone I’m used to hearing on him. The only way to end the spell, speaking as simplistically as possible, is a resolution to the initial use of the spell. I should have explained it to him better, but I had naively assumed that discovering whatever Baz had been plotting might have been enough to end it himself.

“Did you find anything out?”

I can hear Simon sighing and the thump of a body against grass and assume he’s sat down. The books in my arms are getting heavy so I sit down beside him and I can feel pressure against my knee, the only other indication of another person.

“No,” he says, “Yes. Maybe? Not… he’s not planning anything. He’s not plotting. That’s what I’ve found out. He’s not trying to kill me. He’s just trying to-- he’s trying to survive. Just like me.”

There’s a shimmer over my eyes, a snap-- or maybe a _pop_ \-- and my brain has to refocus to accommodate a full, fleshy human body where previously there hadn’t been one.

Simon is looking at me, mouth open and eyes wide. He looks surprised, glancing down at his own hands. I grin at him, reaching over to cuff him over the head which makes him squawk, which just makes me grin harder.

“Didn’t need my help at all, did you?” I ask.

He looks confused, tilting his head in that way that makes him look like a retriever dog and that makes him endlessly charming.

“I was just going to counterspell you back if you hadn’t turned visible on your own. You didn’t need it though. The spell only ends when you achieve the goal you initially set for the spell. What you wanted to know, or what you wanted to do.”

It takes him a moment to process this, I can practically see the gears in his head turning. I wonder why this is such a thinker for him, why he seems so confused.

“But,” he starts, face scrunching, “I only figured out that I--” he stops and his eyes widen and, strangely, he blushes.

  
  


**SIMON**

There’s a war inside me. Do I tell Penny about what I heard, about what I saw? It seems strangely intimate, like a moment that Baz and I shared without him even knowing. I can hardly talk about my own feelings without mentioning what I’d heard him saying to Dev, or how utterly broken he seems to be.

“I figured out that I,” I start again, clearing my throat past the embarrassed lump, “that I, eh-- that perhaps I…” How do I even begin to explain it? How my feelings about Baz have flipped completely on their head in the last six or so hours.

Penny is looking at me, though, like she understands. She has that smile, the sweet one that she uses when I get particularly blustery.

“It’s okay, Simon,” she says, patting my arm (I wish I could have patted Baz’s arm like this when he needed it), “we’ll figure out what he’s up to. We’ll just have to try--”

“No!” I feel myself shout before I can think to lower my voice. She looks a bit taken aback, but not angry. I fist a hand in my hair, trying to figure out how to tell her, how to explain this revelation that has thoroughly rocked me to my core.

“No,” I say, quieter and serious so that she’ll listen, “that’s just the thing. He’s not up to anything, I don’t think. I think he’s just sad. And I think I might fancy him.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Penny so completely gobsmacked in my life.

She’s staring at me and for a moment I’m afraid that maybe she’ll be disappointed, or angry at me for wasting her time all of these years. I can tell that she’s rearranging the information in her mind, making new connections and putting new pieces together. When she’s done, it’s like a storm has passed and she’s smiling at me so brilliantly that I feel a bit overwhelmed by it. She tackles me to the ground, hugging me tightly around my middle.

“Oh, Simon,” she says and for once it doesn’t sound condescending, or pitying when she says that. She sounds elated. “You put the pieces together all on your own, didn’t you? I didn’t even see it, but now that I do, it’s so obvious, isn’t it? Of course you fancy Baz, Simon! You always have!”

This isn’t necessarily news to me, but hearing it spoken out loud does throw me a bit. I’d thought that maybe the years of stalking and watching and thinking about him had created this perfect storm when I’d seen him so vulnerable tonight. Maybe he’s so fit that he turned me, unexpectedly. I wrestle myself out of her arms, my eyebrows knitted together. Her smile fades a bit and she looks at me like she had expected more from me.

“You know, with the way you two are always obsessing over each other. I honestly should have realised it back in year five. You would _not_ shut up about him, it nearly drove me mad.”

I sit back on my hands, mulling this over. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Baz that year, or any year after. Even during the summer when I wasn’t thinking about anything else, I’d find myself thinking about Baz. How annoying he was, what he was trying to do with Agatha, what he was doing in general, what his bedroom in his house might look like, if he had any siblings. It was the one thing that I couldn’t completely turn off in my brain. He’s always been a prick, but then so have I. We were always poking and prodding each other, trying to get a reaction, trying to keep each other’s attention. Or, at least, I have. He always has my attention, he doesn’t even have to try.

Merlin, yeah. Maybe I’ve always felt this way. If thinking about Agatha felt _safe_ and _expected_ and _gentle_ , then thinking about Baz was everything but that. He lights my blood on fire. He sends electricity through my spine. I used to think that was a bad thing, but maybe I sought it out because it had made me feel _alive_.

“I have to talk to him,” I say and I know it’s true. I have no idea how he would even react, but that uncertainty is far more than the confidence I’d had before that he hates me. Now, at least, I think he might not. Hate me, that is. I’m not sure what else to think from there.

Penny knocks her head against my temple and smiles sweetly at me.

“I believe in you, Simon Snow. This is your strongest tie, after all.”

\---

**BAZ**

I do feel like I’m going mad.

After dropping Dev off at his room, I half expected Snow to be sprawled out on his bed like always when I returned. But he was still gone. Still missing. Neither Dev nor Bunce seemed half as worried as me, and that spelled trouble for me. If I was getting so jumpy, so obsessive about not seeing Snow for a few hours outside of his normal schedule, then perhaps I’ve already gone mad. I might have gone years ago.

Bunce hadn’t even seemed concerned. She’d seemed almost… amused at my questions. She must know where he is and is purposefully keeping the information from me. Not that I could blame her, it’s not as if I’ve done anything to be trustworthy with such intel, no matter how desperate I seem. Maybe especially because of how desperate I seem.

It’s far, far too late to be up on a school night. I had been planning on going straight to bed and hoped that Snow would return by the morning, but I seem to be completely incapable of sleep. Every time I begin drifting off my ears pick up some distant sound and I’d, once again, be on high alert.

So it’s late, too late, and I can’t sleep, and Snow isn’t even here for me to stare at. I feel like crying again. My last cry had felt more like an explosion than anything. Sometimes I won’t feel like crying at all, and then the moment I know that I’m alone it will all burst forth like a tidal wave and I won’t have any control until my body decides that it’s over. It had been like that earlier. Watching Snow all day, seeing him watch Wellbelove, feeling his eyes on me. It had been the last straw and the dam had broken as soon as the door to our empty room shut. It had been pathetic and embarrassing, even with no one around.

Now, though, the tears push against my eyes and I know exactly why. It’s not a build up, it’s not a tidal wave. It feels like a rainstorm. It feels like it could last for ages once I start. The worry and the shame and the anguish. It beats behind my chest and makes my heart palpitate.

It almost stops when the door suddenly bursts open.

Like a miracle, like a whirlwind, like a beautiful nightmare, Simon Snow is in our room.

And he’s staring at me.

He has his daft, ridiculous mouth agape and his eyes are zeroed in on me like a homing missile. His cheeks are ruddy and his nose is glowing and he’s panting slightly like he’d run here. I’m sure I look a mess, on the verge of tears and my hair wind mussed from when I’d been looking for him earlier. I allow myself a brief moment of anger that he was, apparently, fine this entire time. A nightmare. I’m so in love with him it makes me sick.

After a moment he seems to remember himself and he flushes a delicious pink. He closes our door behind him and shuffles around the room awkwardly. He’s still in his uniform, cuffs still buttoned and all, and the tips of his ears are red like he’d been standing out in the cold. Finally, he shucks his blazer on his chair and collapses onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. I have no idea what to say.

“Alright, Baz?” He says after a few more agonizing moments of awkward silence. He has never, ever _once_ said this to me. My inability to speak to him continues on, undeterred.

He turns to look at me, frowning slightly. He has an arm tucked under his head and his other hand fiddles with the button of his school shirt. It’s maddening. I’m mad. I always knew I was.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he continues. Out of pure instinct, I roll my eyes and it seems to shake me from my stupor. I rearrange myself in my blankets and try a casual lean back against my headboard.

“And yet you blunder in here like a blind bull, making a scene as always.”

He huffs and my comment seems to put him a bit at ease. There’s a comfort blooming between us that I hadn’t expected. It throws me off balance again.

“But you’re still awake.”

“Astute observation, Snow. Your deductive skills continue to amaze me.”

He laughs, delighted, and I have no idea what is happening. Usually my comments annoy him at least, antagonize him at worse. He’s not supposed to find amusement in my taunts.

“Merlin,” he says with a wistful sort of tone. He’s got his gaze trained on the ceiling and he’s still smiling. Horribly, I wonder if he and Wellbelove finally consummated their pathetic excuse of a relationship tonight. Perhaps he’s feeling… ugh, _post-coital bliss_. The thought immediately sours me.

“If you insist on mooning over Wellbelove, you could at least do so in silence. In the dark.”

His head snaps to me and I can feel my heart palpitate again-- Crowley, maybe I need to see a doctor-- and his smile is gone. I hate that. I hate that I do that to him.

“Agatha?” He asks as if I’d just said something completely daft. He has his nose scrunched adorably and he looks utterly confused.

“Yes, you dunce, your girlfriend. The one who makes you into a jealous lunatic every time I so much as smile at her.”

He shakes his head as if the idea is ridiculous to him and I am well and truly lost. He huffs, a private sort of thing, and then rolls over onto his side, looking at me with every ounce of his ordinary, anticlimactic, beautiful, breathtaking eyes.

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore,” he says, as if this answers everything. Again with the _bloody_ heart. It feels like it’s beating against my chest so hard I feel it in my wrists.

“Fine, _ex-girlfriend_. I must not have received this week’s newsletter detailing the tumultuous nature of your--”

“And I was never jealous of you.”

I don’t know if I heard him right.

He must read the shock on my face, I can feel it in the way my mouth opens unattractively, and the way I’m staring at him like _he’d_ just admitted that he’s a vampire, because he just says,

“I was always jealous of her.”

Surely, his loose grasp of the Queen’s English has twisted his words. He doesn’t mean that. I know he doesn’t. There’s no possible way he means that.

“You’re being a twat,” I say because I have to do something, have to shove him away, have to slap him out of this giddy state he seems to be in. It only serves to widen his smile. It also, horrifyingly, gets him to lift himself up off his bed and make his way over to mine.

“I always thought I was jealous of you, of the way she always looked at you, of how it seemed like she wanted you more. Now I know that it was because it was _you_ she was looking at. Because I wanted--” he pauses, staring at me and he looks… almost _scared._ As if I could do anything but love him deeply and unconditionally.

“I wanted you.” He says. I knew it was coming from the context clues, but the words still bowl me over. I can’t feel my limbs. All of my extremities are numb. My vision has zeroed in on Simon Snow and the way he’s looking at me like he, amazingly, doubts that I could ever, impossibly, love anyone else.

I have no idea what to say, I have no words for him. Everything that wants to spill out of me is pure feeling, pure emotion, and I have no way to articulate it. So I do the only thing one can do in a situation like this.

I kiss Simon Snow.

It’s a messy ordeal. I don’t have full control or feeling in my body, so I sort of scramble over and knock him against the end of my mattress. My hair gets in his face and our bodies are angled strangely and I’ve sort of pinned him down by the shoulder unintentionally. The noise he makes, though, when I finally get it right… oh, it is _heaven_.

With a bit of maneuvering, he’s pulled me so that my knees are on either side of his thighs and he has his head tilted just this way, and mine is tilted just that way, and he’s pushing his blunt fingertips into my hair to hold it out of our faces and he’s bloody _kissing me_. He’s kissing me like he’s wanted it as long as I have. Like he’s thought of nothing else. It’s _brilliant_. It’s electrifying. It feels like a promise fulfilled. Perhaps he _is_ killing me, in a roundabout way.

We stay like that for some time, far longer than we should have considering the hour. When he has to interrupt for the fourth time with a deep yawn, I corral him into the bathroom so that he can brush his teeth and get properly ready.

I’m not sure what I expect him to do when he emerges, mouth smelling of mint and shirt missing, but I’m delighted (and confused) when he slips in next to me in my own bed.

He immediately wraps his arms around my middle and settles in sleepily, yawning again. It feels too fragile for me to ask any questions, no matter how much I want to interrogate him about his abrupt change of heart. I want to know what he saw, what these few hours have done to allow him to look at me like he is now, through hooded and sleepy eyes. I wonder, wildly, if the way he’s always looked at me has contained an ounce of how he looks at me now. I can’t stop looking at him, inspecting him, wondering if this is some sort of spell, or a transformed goblin or numpty or fucking merwolf. Were there any hints in the way he looked at me before? What could have--

“Shh,” Snow hushes me with a finger against my lips. I hadn’t been speaking, but I certainly can’t now, “you’re thinking too loud.”

I can’t help the snort that escapes me. He cracks an eye open and gazes at me (not _glares_ , but _gazes_ ) and he almost looks a little star struck.

“I like you,” he says like it’s an answer to a question. I roll my eyes but he reaches up to catch his fingers against my jaw, angling my face down to see him.

“I like you. A lot. We’ll… Merlin we’ll have to talk about it tomorrow, but… Baz. Please trust me when I tell you that I am _obsessed_ with you. I want to be here, in your bed, and I want to kiss you until my jaw falls off. You make me feel good, _alive_. You don’t treat me like I’m the Chosen One. You don’t expect me to save the world. You’re just… you’re _you_. And I’m me. And it’s taken me this long to realise that we make sense. Trust me on that, at least.”

I’m staring at him, I know I am, and I know that my eyes might as well have little stars in them. He likes me. He told me _explicitly_ that he likes me. He’s asking me to trust him and I feel that I have no choice.

“I love you,” I say, because I have no choice in that, either. That’s not what he said. He made no mention of love, but when I say it I watch as his face blooms into delight all the same. He kisses me for my good behavior and he whispers little secrets into my lips and we will certainly talk about this tomorrow, but for now Simon Snow is wrapped around my body and he’s kissing me and he adores me and I love him and he doesn’t mind in the least. In fact, as we fall asleep I think I can almost feel him press the same into the skin beneath my ear with soft, warm lips.

**SIMON**

I think I probably do love him. All of the evidence makes it hard to deny.

I love hearing him say that he loves me. I know that.

I love kissing him, I know that as well.

I love pretty much everything about him, I decide. It’s funny how easy it is to mistake love for hate. Penny once told me that the two emotions are very similar, magickally speaking. They’re passion, desire, intense emotional response. They come from the same place, maybe. Or maybe I never really understood what it means to love someone, not like this. I didn’t love Agatha, I know that now for sure. I love Penny _dearly_ , but I love her differently. I love her like I love Ebb and the goats. I love her like I love Watford and my bed and sour cherry scones. I think I might love Baz like I love fighting. I might love him like I love _breathing_. Naturally, instinctively, unknowingly until it was taken from me. Until I started counting breaths to calm myself. Loving him is like breathing. I think that’s what this sort of love is supposed to feel like.

When Baz looks at me and he looks _stricken_ , sick with his feelings for me, and maybe that’s sort of how love is supposed to feel, too. There were days that looking at him gave me a stomachache. He always makes my heart beat too fast, too heavy. I really should have figured it out sooner, but he did make it a bit hard, didn’t he? Wanker.

I feel a cold finger press against my lips and I look up from my position against Baz’s chest. “Shh,” he says, eyes closed and a cocky smirk on his lips, “you’re thinking too loud, Snow.”

I kiss his fingertip and watch as his lips part and his smirk fall. I grin and kiss it again, and then I kiss the underside of his jaw, and then his cheek, and then the side of his long, elegant nose. He cracks an eye open and looks at me. That stricken sort of look is back, like he can’t help it, like his heart is wrenching against his chest and it hurts him to be this close to me. I press my hand to his heart, trying to quell it a bit, and rest my forehead against his.

“I love you,” I say, and I don’t think I really meant to say it, but I’m pleased to find that it feels true. It’s as if I’ve hit him in the gut. His face falls and I truly do think he might cry, but instead he just kisses me again, wraps his arms tightly around me like I might fly away and I sort of feel like I might.

“You ridiculous, beautiful, nightmare of a man.” He whispers against my lips and I laugh and he swallows it and I love him.

It’s easy. It’s like breathing. It’s as easy as hating him was, but I never hated him. Not really.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!! Kudos and comments are always, always appreciated! I love you!
> 
> Also lmk if I should write an epilogue? I wasn't super sure if I should or not! Does it feel like it needs it?
> 
> My tumblr is cacaesthesia.tumblr.com! I don't rly use twitter anymore but if anyone wants to cry about Carry On or, specifically, Wayward Son with me then please send me a message. I'm really nice!!!!


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